


innocent

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Smut Week [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (and give her all the orgasms), (officially now), (sort of - they're dorks trying), (too good for this world - too pure), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Horny Teenagers, Idiots in Love, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon is Jon, Jon just wants to treat her Right, Jonsa Smut Week, Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa is a Cinnamon Roll, Vaginal Fingering, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 07:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: in which Jon endeavors to make the bedding something to remember.[written for theJonsa Smut Week, day three- first time]





	innocent

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to [wistful](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12850581) and prequel to [silk](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12802629)

He stumbles into their chamber—well, the _Lady’s_ chambers, whether they will share them is still up in the air—devoid of much of his wedding apparel. He’s barely clinging to his breeches as it _is_ ; the ladies in attendance had been much too eager to rid him of his clothing.

 

The thought makes him blush in discomfort, but then he turns around after closing and _barring_ the wooden doors, coming face to face with his bride – he’s pretty sure his face, _all of him_ , catches fire then, he feels so hot suddenly.

 

“Umm…”

 

Sansa smiles nervously at him, shyly tugging at the laces of her shift. It pleases him to see her undergarments untouched – he’d asked Lady Brienne and Jaime Lannister to keep an eye on the rowdy lords as she was carried off during the bedding ceremony. It’s good to know Sansa won’t be going into this _apprehensive_ of what’s to come.

 

Not that she’s ignorant to it at all. They had _done_ some things – in the moon’s turn leading up to this day. It had been a passing comment he’s overheard from her what prompted it, how she was ready to _endure_ this night as was her duty.

 

Jon could not simply accept that; allow her to keep to those notions. So he’d suggested they talk, about all they knew of the bedding— _Gods_ , but Sansa was painfully, adorably naive and innocent about it all.

 

Not anymore. But this— _tonight_ , this is still uncharted territory for her.

 

 _And for me, in a way_ , he thinks, remembering Ygritte in what feels like a haze; almost as if the memory came from the dream of a dream.

 

“How…” Sansa falters, clears her throat as her cheek bloom with color, “how shall we proceed?”

 

“However you wish,” he’s quick to reply.

 

Her blush brightens, travels down her neck and down, down, _down_ ; Sansa extends her hand, a bashful smile tugging at her lips as she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. _Ah_ , but he’s moving even before his mind acknowledges the invitation. She pulls him closer—a vision of innocence and temptation—and _yes_ , he thinks, this is how it should be. Let her take the first step, set the pace.

 

Their lips touch and Jon’s shaking, can’t tell why – can only wrap his arms around her waist and bring her closer to his body, kiss her more firmly, passionately.

 

He lets his hands wander up her sides, until he cups her breasts and can swipe his thumbs over her hardened nipples. Jon wants to see her completely unclothed, he suddenly realizes; he’s had her gown unlaced down to her waist, her skirts bunched up to her hips – but he’s yet to see her devoid of them.

 

It makes sense they would wait until tonight for it.

 

“May I take this off?” he asks, a whisper against her mouth, bunching her shift at her sides – as an afterthought, when she doesn’t answer, he adds, “only if you want to.”

 

“I thought…” Sansa pulls back, enough to gaze at him more comfortably. “I’d been told there was no need to remove my shift for the bedding…” she lowers her head then, dropping her hands to grab her shift but does nothing else.

 

“You wish to keep it on?”

 

“Should I not?”

 

 _Probably_ – most likely, she’d been made to believe a great many things that he wishes to prove wrong. A part of Jon bristles at the thought of Septa Mordane or anyone else making this act sound so unbearable that, even after all they’ve done together in the past moon’s turn, Sansa would find it hard to believe she’ll enjoy it.

 

“You may take it off, or not. _Anything_ you want. I won’t force you, Sansa,” he says, earnestly, cupping her face and tilting it back so she can see he _means_ it – everything he’s told her is the absolute truth.

 

He strokes her cheeks gently, smiling reassuringly; he won’t push for this. If Sansa wishes to bed him fully clothed for the rest of their life, he’ll accept it and be happy for it.

 

She pushes up to kiss his lips, so very lightly, and smiles. “Will you be taking off your breeches?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then it’s only fair that I do so as well.”

 

Jon knows she means it and that’s the only reason why he doesn’t asks again to be sure. “Very well.” And then, “shall I go first?”

 

Her grateful smile is enough to prompt his eagerness; he pushes both his breeches and smallclothes down his legs and kicks them off to the side. It’s only when he straightens up that Jon _remembers_ , this is the first time Sansa has seen him naked from the waist down.

 

“Oh.”

 

Her eyes zero in on his cock, heated and curious; she steps closer, reaches out – Jon barely dares to _breathe_. Slowly, her fingers circle the head, thumb swiping over it; then she strokes a single finger down—his cock _twitches_.

 

“It’s… _lively_ ,” her hand jerks away when he groans, and gives him a sheepish look. “I didn’t know… I—will it fit?”

 

He chokes on a laugh, can’t resist the distance anymore, but _still_ – Jon won’t crowd her, grabbing her hands gently to kiss each palm. “I assure you, m’lady, it’s of no extraordinary size.”

 

Sansa nods, takes a fortifying breath, and sheds the second to last piece of clothing standing in their way, letting it fall to the floor by their feet – _brave_ , his bride, she meet his eyes with all the confidence of a Queen. His Queen.

 

His breath catches as he looks down, glimpses at a tuft of red curls – last then, the _last_ piece of clothing. Now they both stand as naked as the day they were born. Almost on its own—he’s so very aware of his desire to simply touch her—his hands encircle her waist, pull her closer and _closer_ , until his cock is trapped between their bodies and he groans in sweet agony.

 

“I thought,” she grabs his sides, rakes her fingernails around and up his back, “I thought it’d be easier if I just removed my smallclothes before…”

 

His gut twists, that feels so _good_ ; he yearns to lift her by the thighs and sink into what he’s sure will be sweet oblivion. But won’t – Jon’ll _do_ this right. “I understand,” a strangled whisper; he bends down to pick her up and walks towards the massive bed, placing her atop the furs. “Lie back.”

 

Sansa scoots over to the middle of the bed, drops back onto the pillows with barely contained anticipation – her eyes do not leave him for even a second, and it’s all he can do not to pounce on her when she licks her lips as her gaze travels up and down. He crawls slowly instead, until he’s settled between her bent knees; watching her attentively, he strokes the skin of her thighs gently, sweetly, silently begging her to let go of whatever apprehension remains latched onto her.

 

Or so he thinks – Sansa sits up, grabs the back of his neck and draws him into a kiss that robs him of any coherent thought. She’s managed to surprise him by doing this, taking this initiative, but _oh_ pleasantly so; her hands take the liberty of roving over his naked flesh as much as his have done with hers. Rubs his shoulders almost reverently, trails her fingers over his collarbones before diverting onto his back and over his shoulder blades. She strokes down his back, taking the time to caress every scar along the way, circle around his waist and up. His abs—and again she takes her sweet, _sweet_ time getting familiar with the expanse of exposed skin of his abdomen and his chest.

 

She breaks the kiss only to burn a path down his neck and to his chest with her lips – to the scar protruding above his heart. “I want to kiss you all over,” she says, mumbles against his skin. “May I?”

 

He thinks he might have died and gone to rest among the Old Gods.

 

“You _may_ , but not today,” the hardest, most painful words he’s ever uttered. “Not now – _now_ , I need you to be ready, so I… Gods, Sansa, I’m barely holding onto my wits as it is.”

 

“I am ready,” the way she squirms and looks down between her legs makes her statement clear enough.

 

With a groan, he crashes his lips to hers in a frenzied kiss, short but heated and soon he’s drawing a path down. He brings a hand up to massage one tit while he suckles blooms onto the other; twists and rubs and pinches her hardened tips as his lips and tongue pay attention to the other, and then he switches. A little push and Sansa’s falling back onto the pillows, but he doesn’t give rest to his attentions until she’s a squirming mess underneath him—gasping and wanting and yearning for _more_.

 

His lovely, _lovely_ bride is mindless with pleasure as he inches his way down her body, if her whimpering pleas are anything to go by. Oh, she asks for a chance to give him as much pleasure as she receives, but Jon’s determined to make this one night about her.

 

“Jon!”

 

The first taste of her always has him _pausing_ , eyes closed in wonder – she’s indescribable, he’s tried to put into words how divine she tastes but never is fully satisfied with it. The next glide of his tongue is harder and has her legs snapping shut—or _trying_ , Jon has a firm hold of them. Her hips buck, still, uncontrollably when he latches onto the little nub at the top of her sex. She gasps, back arching as her muscles seem to coil and then dissolve into a quivering mess – the hand fisting in his hair has him humming, _pleasantly_ , and grinning.

 

Because, in the short spam since the first time he did _this_ for her, her hand always finds purchase on his hair; it’s not a conscious thing on her part, the grabbing—the _pulling_. He loves it, loves it more when she blushes, shy in the knowledge of what she does while in the throes of passion.

 

Jon groans when he slips a finger into her and feels her walls clenching, just imagining how they’d feel around his cock has him on the brink of oblivion. A second, then a third finger join unimpeded; he flicks his tongue over her nub until Sansa begs him to stop, yet pulls him closer instead by the hair. Jon pries her fingers off his head, slowly, and replaces his mouth with his thumb, mindful of her strangled cries of protest but he can’t— _can’t_ wait another second.

 

Sansa waits no more to pull him up and into a desperate kiss, mumbling against his lips that she’s ready and that he _should_ , right now, because Jon, _Jon, Jon, I need, more, I need—you, now_. His wet fingers slide out of her and up, to keep the pressure on her nub and he aligns himself and starts pushing in.

 

 _Oh_ , but it’s glorious, this feeling—he’d almost forgotten, wishes he could just thrust into her in sweet abandon, but he’s all too aware of her little groans. Not quite of pain, but not of pleasure either. When he breaches, feels her maidenhead give, he stops at her hiss – stops and waits and prays the pain isn’t too much.

 

“Alright?” Jon asks, unnecessarily, but he asks.

 

“Alright,” is her answer and she wraps her legs around his waist; gasps, rolls her hips against him and urges him to _move_. “Jon.”

 

So he does, bracing his weight on one of his elbows, his free hand gripping her hip, he moves slow and steady, rocking his hips in deep strokes, pushing into her until she’s gasping in delight again. Until he’s positive she’s enjoying this as much as he is.

 

 _I won’t last_ , he thinks, laments – he’d wanted to take her with him as he peaked but at this rate, it wouldn’t be too long for him. Jon’s learned to anticipate Sansa’s by the sounds that escape her, low and throaty and spearing straight to his groin, and she’s not quite _there_ —not even rubbing the place where they’re joined will get her.

 

“I won’t last,” he rasps, burying his face into her neck as he moves his other hand to her hips—his thrusts hasten. “Gods, Sansa, I won’t last. I _wanted_ to—”

 

She wraps her arms around him, hooks her legs higher up his waist, pressing her feet into his bum – he moans.

 

“Alright,” she gasps, meeting his erratic thrusts the best she can. “It’s alright, Jon.”

 

He feels her lips grazing his neck, her nails scratching down his back—and he’s _undone_. He spills harder than ever before, body shaking through what feels like forever and then he collapses on top of her. Trying to catch his breath, Jon’s vaguely aware of Sansa running her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, pushing it back from his face. He doesn’t even _try_ to move yet, not that he could, she’s yet to unwind her legs from his waist, doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to push him off.

 

“That felt good,” says Sansa, after an eternity. “I liked it, very much.”

 

He chuckles weakly, kisses her neck.

 

“You seemed to like it, too,” she taps his shoulder, and he gather the remains of his strength to push himself up onto his elbows; her expression is one of open curiosity. “Did you like it, Jon?”

 

He laughs because that— _that_ has to be the understatement of all times. “Aye,” he says, “aye, I liked it, _very much_.”


End file.
